A Week Before Cohen
by Joey51
Summary: When Trey left, Ryan picked up the slack, took up double duty, and last night was bad, he could admit, but he didn’t always end up lying on the floor for an hour until his brother found him. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Already posted on my LJ. Just thought I would share over here as well.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

A Week Before Cohen

**Chapter One**

"Fuck."

"Fuck, Ryan, just sit still and hold that there."

Trey wiped the water that slicked his palms from the bag of ice off on his jeans, then got up from the couch. He turned on the TV and muted the volume, falling back onto the sofa as he flicked through the channels so quickly that it made Ryan nauseous.

He sighed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. He held the ice firmly against his throbbing left temple—drops of water occasionally rolled down his wrist and forearm before soaking into the sleeve of his shirt.

"Why the fuck are you still here?"

Ryan grimaced at the accusing tone of his brother's voice. Slowly, carefully, he pried his eyes open and squinted in Trey's direction.

"Because you're not," he spat out, his voice more of a whisper than anything else.

"Bullshit," Trey scoffed. He dropped his feet from the coffee table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking directly into Ryan's eyes. "You know damn well you can split anytime you want. Arturo and me, we'd make room. We have a couch, you know."

Ryan bit back a sarcastic laugh and shook his head—immediately regretting it when he all but felt the force of AJ's steel-toed boot connecting with his skull again. A small groan escaped his lips and he dropped the hand holding the ice onto his lap, bowing his head and waiting for the excruciating stabbing pain to reside.

Trey was quiet for a few minutes—or at least it felt like a few minutes—and Ryan was thankful for the silence. He didn't want to hear about just how easy it would be to move out. He already had a bag packed in his closet, hiding behind a box containing some old clothes. It was too tempting to just up and leave as it was. But he knew, the second he followed Trey's lead and jumped ship, it would be AJ's open season on Dawn.

"Maybe…you should go to the hospital…."

Trey's voice interrupted Ryan's sick reverie. He suddenly realized how wet and cold the left leg of his jeans was, the melted ice having spilt out of the plastic bag. He tried to open his eyes again, but the left one was fighting him, like the lids were glued shut. He settled for another quick shake of his head, and bit his lip in anticipation.

He could barely hear Trey's response over the roaring of the blood in his ears, but it sounded something like, "You're one tough son of a bitch, you know that?" It was followed up with the Trey Atwood equivalent of a pat on the back: a punch to the bicep.

"M'tired," Ryan moaned, leaning back into the lumpy cushions of the old sofa.

He felt the plastic bag being removed from the loose grip of his fingers.

* * *

"Hey." 

"C'mon."

"…how long…?"

The voices slipped in and out of Ryan's dream, every word growing stronger and dragging his unwilling brain back toward consciousness.

"Hey, Ryan, c'mon."

He forced his eyes to open, if only to stop the voices from talking.

Before he could even process what was happening, Theresa jumped back, avoiding the vomit that came without warning.

"Whoa!"

Ryan leaned forward, coughing, choking—his throat stinging, his head imploding.

Why couldn't they have just let him sleep?

A gentle hand rubbed small circles at the top of his back. He focused solely on breathing through the paralyzing pain.

"I've got to go."

He recognized the gruff arrogance of Trey's voice.

"We can't just leave him here! God knows what AJ will do to him."

Ryan winced at Theresa's shrill objection. She was too close to be talking so loudly.

"This is why I don't live here anymore." There was a sigh…possibly a boot kicking a piece of furniture. "Fuck. Can't you just take him to your place?"

"Yeah, I'll just toss him over my shoulder and jog over. Jesus, Trey, just help me move him."

Footsteps approached. A hand grabbed Ryan's shoulder, shaking him roughly.

"Ry, can you stand up?"

He didn't want to move. He didn't want to think. The pain coursing through his head and neck surpassed anything he'd ever experienced. The thought of standing up made his stomach hiccup a threat.

"Here…. Take his other arm…."

Trey grabbed one elbow and Theresa the other.

When Ryan felt his body lift off the couch, he forced his eyes open. Again, only the right one was functioning, and the dim light from the corner floor lamp sent violent bolts of lightening through his skull.

He kept his eye open long enough to somehow step over the pile of vomit on the floor, and then relied on memory for the rest of the trip. Occasionally, Theresa would mumble words like, "step up" and "step down," but he could barely focus on her instructions.

It was beyond dizzying, and he savored the enormous relief when he was dropped onto a soft bed.

"'Kay, I've gotta go. Take care, little bro."

"Trey…."

A door slammed and Ryan turned his head into the pillow, praying and begging for silence.

As if Theresa could read his mind, she didn't speak again. A blanket was pulled up under his chin and a kiss placed on his right cheek. The door shut quietly.

* * *

When Ryan awoke, he immediately felt his heart jump up his throat. Only when he was able to focus his one working eye enough to recognize the dark interior of Theresa's room, did he let his muscles relax, falling back into the pillow. 

He tried blinking back the blinding pain behind his eyes, but to no avail. Fortunately, he didn't have to squint. The one window's blinds were not only drawn shut, but a dark colored sheet had been tacked up on top.

He vaguely remembered mumbling something about turning off the light when Theresa had nudged him awake earlier, so he assumed that had been her solution.

Muffled voices filtered through the door. Heated. Not a fight, not like the ones he was used to, but more like a clashing of opinions. He could almost guarantee this in this safe zone, no one was taking a boot to the head.

Ryan could never sleep in. If he was at home, he'd be awoken by yelling, screaming, a television turned on far too loud, or a combination of the three. When he was at Theresa's, he felt obligated to help make breakfast and clean up around the house. It was the least he could do in exchange for a safe place to sleep with no questions asked. He would never abuse Eva's trust or take advantage of this situation. She'd been far too good to him. Far too understanding.

Today could have been the one day when Ryan's brain and conscience would have allowed him the luxury of sleeping late, but nature was calling.

He slowly maneuvered himself up and out of the bed, grabbing onto the footboard for support when he felt his body waver unsteadily. Bright colors flashed across his vision for a brief moment, but after a few calculated blinks, the room came back into focus and he trusted his legs enough to take him to the bathroom.

When he was finished, he walked slowly down the hallway toward the voices, keeping his right hand on the wall at all times to provide a solid support just in case the colors came back and starting wreaking havoc with his equilibrium again.

"He's not going back there." Eva's voice was firm, and Ryan could picture her nodding her head once in a determined nature, like Theresa did when she was absolutely set on an idea.

Ryan stopped halfway down the hallway.

"You can't just tell him he can't go home, ma. That's not how it works. And you know Ryan; he won't listen!"

"Theresa!"

Ryan stood up perfectly straight, swallowing nervously. He pressed his back against the wall and closed his eyes.

Eva lowered her voice immediately afterwards, but she had made her point—everyone was listening. "This is not about what Ryan wants. I can't keep turning my back anymore. He could have been killed! He's your age, Theresa, and I would never, ever allow you to go back to a person who had hurt you in any way. He needs someone to look out for him."

"Yes! And we do. You can't just forbid him to go home, ma! We barely have enough room here for us; where would he go?"

"There are people out there who help kids like him, Theresa! People who can care for him."

Theresa laughed bitterly. "You're kidding, right? You've got to be fucking kidding me!"

"Hey!"

But the scolding wasn't going to stop Theresa. Ryan knew her well, and when she was angry enough to swear at her mother—a sin of worldly proportions, he was aware—nothing was going to stop her from saying what was on her mind.

"You realize that if you call child services, he'll run. You know that, right?" She didn't give her mother a chance to respond. She took a sharp breath and continued to shout, her voice rising and strained, "And I don't blame him, because I've seen…WE'VE seen what happens to those kids, ma! They're not better off! They're not!"

She choked on a sob, but continued to wail. "If you call them, it'll take them at least a week to get their asses over here, and I'll tell him, ma! He'll run and leave me behind, but I'll tell him, I swear…."

Theresa's last few words were muffled, and Ryan could hear the shushing sound of a mother comforting her daughter. He'd witnessed it many times before. They were always the type of family to love and argue with all their hearts. But this time it was different. Never before had it been about him.

He felt sick. Really sick. And everything was coming apart. He didn't mean to worry Eva, or Theresa, or even Trey, but when AJ went after Dawn, someone had to step in. That was always the way it had been. And when Trey left, Ryan picked up the slack—took up double duty—and last night was bad, he could admit, but he didn't always end up lying on the floor for an hour until his brother found him. Sometimes, AJ just pushed him around and then fell asleep on the couch in a drunken stupor.

Ryan was about to turn around—return to the room where he could at least sleep away the next few awkward hours—but before he could even take a step backward, the mere shift of his weight caused a floorboard to creak. He bit his lip and tilted his head back.

Well, fuck. So much for that.

"Ryan?"

He grimaced and counted to ten. Maybe she wouldn't check. He opened his eyes to see Theresa's concerned, tear-stained face peeking around the corner. She immediately strode toward him, placing a hand on his elbow.

"Are you okay? You probably shouldn't be walking around…."

He shrugged her off. "I'm fine."

She took a step back, and without even looking up, he could picture every feature on her face—an expression of sadness and worry. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Sorry," he whispered, and not because he didn't want to be overheard by Eva—who he was sure was lingering around the corner, pretending to be busy—but more because the bright colors were back full-force and he suddenly wasn't so confident he could stand on his own two feet, let alone speak.

He leaned over, one hand on Theresa's shoulder, the other on his knee, trying to find some sort of balance. It was the strangest thing, feeling like he was lying on his side when he could see his own two feet touching the ground in front of his eyes.

Theresa was mumbling something—the same old shit. She'd seen him like this before, he remembered sadly. Too many times, maybe. He couldn't help but wonder what she must think when he came to her for help, like he always did. Surely she must be getting sick of this. God, he was sick of this….

He was so hot. Like suddenly he was stuck in a sauna, the humidity making it hard to breath to the bottom of his lungs. A drop of sweat rolled slowly down his forehead. By the time it reached his chin, he was lying down. He was sure of it. Even though his eyes were closed and he didn't totally trust his other senses, this time he was positive he was on his back.

"Go see if the car will start."

He felt like the left side of his face was flat. Like when Trey used to throw him a basketball when he wasn't totally paying attention, and it smacked him square in the nose, making him feel like his features had been rearranged. But instead of the numbing tingle and roaring laughter, there was shocking pain and panicked voices.

"Now, Theresa!"

He heard the screen door slam shut, and then the piggish squealing of the old car's engine struggling to turn over.

A gentle hand wiped the sweaty hair back off of Ryan's forehead.

"No more, Ryan." The words were soft and gentle, and if he weren't waging a war against the pins and needles assailing his skull, he might have been lulled to sleep. "Soon, Ryan, things will be different."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry (especially to Misty) for the lack of length. In order to maintain this rapid posting, I can't help but keep them short. Hope you enjoy it anyway.**

**Chapter Two**

"Here. Catch."

Ryan turned his head and shoulder just in time to avoid the pillow hurling toward his head. Normally, he would have caught it, but the effort required to lift his arms and react, just wasn't in the bank today.

"Oookay," Trey drawled, marching over to the door to pick up the stray pillow, then tossing it onto the sofa along with the mess of blankets and the one, small faded sheet that Ryan recognized from when they used to live in Fresno.

"Not in the _catching_ mood," Ryan shot back under his breath. He was irritable and miserable, and the idea of moving into a decrepit apartment with Trey and Arturo was not doing anything for his weary state of mind.

But Theresa had insisted, and seeing as how both she and her mother had skipped a day of work to be with Ryan as he lay on a gurney and hurled into a bucket, he couldn't really find it in himself to argue. It was just until things calmed down, he told himself. When the bruises faded and emotions tapered, everything could go back to normal.

"I think there's some shit in the fridge, so you can help yourself. Just, you know, put stuff back in there eventually if you eat something. And, oh!" Trey jogged to the kitchen, which was really just a small box that had been added on to the tiny living area. "When you turn on this tap, you have to make sure you don't lift it all the way. Otherwise…." Trey lifted the faucet handle up and then ducked to avoid the stream of water that spurted into the air. He turned the water off and then used his sock to mop up the puddle on the cracked linoleum floor. "That's pretty much it," he said with a smile, his arms held out at his sides as he gestured to his modest living area.

Ryan nodded even though he was sure none of what Trey had just said to him would be remembered past this evening.

One of the doors on the far wall opened to reveal a swearing Arturo, who was shoving a few bills into his frayed wallet.

"Ryan! Hey. You look rough, man."

Ryan didn't even need to answer, he realized. Not that he really had anything to say in response to that. Arturo talked a lot, but it was like he never really expected anyone to listen, so he never paid attention to anything Ryan ever had to say in response.

Sure enough, Arturo strolled over and stuck his head outside the apartment door and into the hallway. "Where's my sister?"

Ryan rubbed his palm over the back of his neck and closed his eyes. "She had to go…," he paused, swallowed and teetered unsteadily. He found it hard to believe he could possibly have anything left to throw up. He moved his feet just slightly, widening his stance to provide more stability before opening his eyes to see if Arturo was actually listening and waiting for an answer. Wide eyes stared back at him. Of course, _now_ he was listening. "She had to go pick something up. She'll be back," Ryan finished tiredly.

Arturo nodded, then plopped himself down on the sofa, his boots propped up on the pillow that Trey had just thrown at Ryan.

All Ryan wanted to do was curl up and sleep away this nightmare in his own bed. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were—as imperfect as they might have seemed.

But now all he had was a worn-out old sofa that looked like it might have been rescued from the dump, a pitiless brother and his ignorant friend, an unprotected mother, and overly concerned girlfriend whose mother was just one bruise away from calling child services. Yeah, everything was just going to be great.

"Ryan, why are you standing there? You should be…." Theresa's voice cut off when she entered the room.

"Hey, sis!"

"Arturo, get off the sofa and let Ryan lie down!"

Arturo's brows rose into an amused arc. "Nice to see you, too!"

Theresa huffed, placing her hands on her hips in her infamous "don't fuck with me" stance.

Arturo slowly removed himself from the creaky sofa—the pillow dropping to the ground as he walked by.

"Ma said you would bring my CDs next time you came by. Got them?"

Ryan bowed his head. He was almost scared to realize he could probably fall asleep standing right in that very place.

Theresa's hand found its way onto his back.

"No."

"No? What the fuck, Theresa? How many times do I gotta ask?"

"Excuse me for not leaving the hospital to go grab your CDs. You're such an ass."

The hand pushed Ryan forward until he found himself standing in front of the sofa.

"Sit down."

Ryan obeyed, pushing the pile of blankets off to the other side of the sofa. He was so fucking hot; he could feel every inch of clothing sticking to his skin. He wanted to shower and change, but he feared what he might catch and he had nothing to change into.

There wasn't even a fan in the entire place, and there certainly wasn't any air conditioning. He felt like he was going to choke on the thickness of the air. He scanned the walls for an open window, but stopped when his head protested, sharp pains stabbing at the back of his eyes.

"We gotta jet, man," Trey said, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Arturo shook his head, like he was trying to shake off the frustration. "Yeah. Fine." He pointed at Theresa. "Next time!"

She shot him a disgusted glare, muttering, "Get them yourself, you ass," under her breath.

As usual, Arturo wasn't listening. He and Trey filed out of the apartment, Arturo slamming the door behind him, causing the loose wooden frame to rattle for several seconds in their wake.

Ryan let his head fall back into the cushions. He grimaced when his skull whacked against something hard—the stuffing in the old piece of furniture had seen better days.

He reached out and rubbed a hand over Theresa's shoulders, feeling her relax immediately.

"Sorry," she muttered, turning back to face him.

Ryan forced a small smile that lasted all of a millisecond, but he knew she knew what it meant.

"Here," she said, pulling a bottle of pills from her jacket pocket. "I managed to convince to doctor to change the name on the prescription so my mom's health insurance would cover it. It wasn't much," she added in a hurry, but Ryan saw how she immediately scrunched up the receipt and shoved it deep into her jeans pocket.

"Thanks." He took the bottle in his hand and held it up to his face. He squinted and then gave up, closing his eyes again and letting the hand fall onto the couch. The pills rattled loudly in the plastic bottle.

"It says to take two every four hours. So don't forget, okay?" she asked hopefully, and Ryan wondered if Theresa felt obligated to be motherly toward him, knowing that his own mother probably wasn't even aware of his recent absence.

"Okay," he croaked. He rolled the bottle around in his palm. Her hand covered his, and he didn't even mind the additional heat on his skin.

"D'you need anything?"

He thought, as much as his brain would allow considering recent circumstances. "Clothes?"

"Yeah. I thought you might ask for that. I'll stop by your place and pick up some of your stuff."

Ryan opened his eyes and looked at her seriously, his left eye just barely able to open with the decrease in swelling. "Go before six if you're gonna go," he told her seriously.

Her fingers tightened around his hand. "I'm going to go as soon as I get home. Don't worry," she said softly. He liked how he never had to explain anything to her. He never told her about AJ's schedule. She just knew.

"There's a bag…." Ryan hesitated, wiped the sweat off his free palm onto his jeans, and waited for the wave of nausea to roll out. She never took her eyes off of him. "There's a bag in my closet, behind a big box." She nodded, and Ryan could almost see her taking mental notes. "Everything I need is in there."

She frowned briefly, but mustn't have given it much thought because she squeezed his hand one last time before standing up.

"When you're there…."

She turned and tilted her head. Theresa, Ryan knew, was always listening.

"My mom…can you…?"

"I'll check on her," she finished for him.

He smiled gratefully. "Thank-you."

"Uh huh."

Her expression immediately turned serious, and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking off to the corner then to the floor. "You know, I would have liked you to stay with us, at least until you're better, but it's just that—"

"I know," he interrupted.

She licked her lips and blinked a few times rapidly. "I just don't want you to…."

"I know," he added when her words were eaten by her emotions.

She smiled sadly, meeting his eyes again. "I'll be back shortly."

"I know," Ryan replied. And she laughed lightly, leaning over placing her lips on his sweaty forehead.

She waved before she walked out the door, closing it ever so gently. And much to the relief of his sickeningly debilitating headache, the wooden frame stayed perfectly in place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Again, it's not the longest update in the world, but they get longer after this, I promise! Thanks to anyone who has read and/or reviewed. I hope to have more up shortly. **

**A Week Before Cohen**

**Chapter Three**

Ryan awoke in a puddle. At least, that was his initial assumption. His pants, shirt, socks, hair—everything—was soaked with sweat. He rubbed his forearm across his face, then pushed himself up onto his elbows.

He had to do something. It was unbearable—_unbreatheable._

His first instinct was to rip off his t-shirt and jeans, but there was no way in hell he was going to expose bare skin to the sofa. He could only imagine what life-threatening bacterial agents lingered in the old wool cross-weave.

He blinked and rubbed at his eyes. The tenderness in his left side helped him regain his bearings. AJ's boot. Hospital. Trey's apartment.

He let out a heavy sigh. For a second there, things didn't seem so bad.

He was instantly consumed by that hopeless depression he felt himself growing quite familiar with, but the more pressing matter at the moment was the fact that he was overheating at an unbearable rate.

He scanned the room for solutions—anything to cool him down.

Though it was dark outside, the small window by the kitchen had no covering and the glass panes worked as a throughway for the street lamp's harsh white light.

He stood up slowly and walked over to the kitchen, relieved to find his balance had returned after its little reprieve.

He studied the window for a few seconds and fiddled with the latch. He tried many different manipulations, and almost felt like he was getting somewhere until the latch broke off in his hand.

He looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching, and then set the broken piece of plastic on the sill, slowly tip-toeing away.

The fight with the window had somehow made him even hotter, and he was afraid that if he didn't get some fresh air soon, he was going to shrivel up…or suffocate. Regardless, he had to get out. Now.

As he walked by the couch, his toe caught on something, tripping him up. He narrowly avoided a face plant, and swore under his breath as he disentangled himself. The feel of the familiar fabric brought a smile to his face.

"Theresa, you're a Godsend," he whispered, grabbing his backpack and quietly exiting the apartment. He checked to make sure the door wasn't locked before he walked down the narrow flight of stairs that lead him into the street.

Though the air outside was probably just as hot as inside the apartment, Ryan savored the breeze that cooled the damp skin on his face. He took a deep breath and looked around.

An uneasy feeling settled at the bottom of his stomach, and at first, he just wrote it off as hunger, but the scene before him slowly started sinking in.

The streets were empty, save for a few cars parked up on the curb and an empty beer bottle by his feet. It looked like any street should look at—he glanced at his watch—2:30 in the morning, but at the same time, it looked like nothing to Ryan.

He noted he was way behind on his medication schedule while realizing he had absolutely _no_ idea where he was.

And that _really_ bothered him.

He certainly hadn't been in any state of mind to pay attention to the street signs when Theresa dropped him off earlier, and it wasn't like Trey ever had a housewarming party or anything.

Ryan lowered himself onto the step at the bottom of the stairwell—just out of sight, but if he leaned forward, he could still feel the cool breeze. Unzipping the front pocket of his backpack, he pulled out the sealed pack of smokes.

A small post-it note stuck to the front.

_Didn't want to wake you._

_-T_

And at the bottom, in small writing, as if it should be read in a whisper, were the words:

_Your mom's fine._

He folded the note up into a tiny square and slipped it into his pocket.

He peeled off the cellophane wrapper, grimacing as it crackled loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the apartments that created the ominous canyon of a street. He was careful to place the plastic into his bag with minimal noise. He didn't want to draw attention to himself. Certainly not in this area…even though he didn't have a clue where he was.

_So much for knowing your city, Atwood_, he mocked himself. But it was probably for the best, he realized. Because if he knew where he was, he would know how to get home, and the idea of home was extremely appealing at the moment. Which, in itself, was a scary revelation.

He promised Theresa. He would stay here. For now….

He inhaled deeply off the freshly-lit cigarette, resting his forearm on his knee as the smoke swallowed his worries. He focused on the burning embers as he exhaled. He repeated the process until the slam of a car door snapped him out of his trance.

"You should park it behind, man. Cops roam this street."

"Nah, it'll be fine. Besides, it won't be reported until morning and by then, I'll have it at the chop—" Trey immediately stopped.

Stopped talking. Stopped walking.

In fact, he stood in the middle of the road, the fingers of his right hand opening and closing around a set of keys.

"Hey, Ry." Trey glanced over at Arturo, then slowly started walking to the sidewalk. "I thought you'd be in bed."

Ryan dropped his butt and ground it into the sidewalk with the toe of his boot, choosing to ignore the irony of Trey's statement. _What bed?_ "I thought you _were_ in bed," Ryan responded bitterly—quietly—as he blew out the final drag.

Arturo stepped around Ryan and started up the stairs. But Ryan kept looking up, his eyes trained on Trey. He was actually quite interested in hearing what his brother had to say.

There was nothing for the longest time, but eventually, Trey turned away and laughed, waving his hands in a dismissive manner. "You know what?" he asked, walking around Ryan and jogging up the stairs. "Fuck this. It's not like you're a fucking saint anyway…." Trey's voice trailed off as he disappeared into the darkness of the stairwell.

Ryan waited for the slam of the apartment door, then cocked his head to the side and studied the shiny car across the street. It certainly didn't blend with the scenery. He smiled at the idea of someone stealing the stolen car before dawn. He could just see Trey's expression. Ryan was half-tempted to move it himself, but that would require some level of energy and motivation—neither of which he was bursting with right now. When he couldn't feel his heartbeat in his left temple, he'd mess with Trey's head.

Instead, he pulled off his damp shirt, draped it over his shoulder, lit another cigarette, and enjoyed the breeze.

TBC.

Any and all opinions, one way or the other, are welcomed. I would love to hear what you think.


	4. Chapter 4

**A really appreciate those of your who are reviewing. It makes it kind of hard to hold out on the chapters. So here's the next installment. Thoughts and comments are very much appreciated. Enjoy.**

**A Week Before Cohen**

**Chapter Four**

Ryan gratefully accepted Theresa's invitation to have lunch at her place. Not only was he starving—unable to remember the last time he had actually eaten—but he was desperate for a shower, and after a quick glimpse behind the moldy shower curtain in his brother's apartment, he vowed not to set foot into the filthy tub for as long as he had to suffer through his new rooming situation. Plus, he didn't even have a towel, and he was not about to adopt Trey's method of using a dirty old t-shirt to dry off.

Trey had grudgingly agreed to give Ryan a lift to the auto shop, which left him only a couple short miles from Theresa's. Though the walk wasn't long or strenuous, and his headache was finally starting to recede into a dull ache rather than debilitating throbbing, he started to struggle a bit during the last few blocks—forcing him to slow his pace. The sun was soaking into his black t-shirt, and by the time he reached Theresa's doorstep, he felt like he was carrying twenty-pound weights on each of his feet. His clothes were clinging to his sweaty skin and the desire for a shower suddenly trumped all ideas of food.

He didn't bother knocking; Eva was at work.

"Hey!" he called out in the direction of the kitchen. He heard the sound of a chair scraping across the floor—footsteps trailing behind him. He pulled his shirt over his head before he was fully in the bathroom.

"That bad, huh?" Theresa laughed at him from down the hallway.

Ryan dropped his shirt onto the floor and reached over to turn on the faucet in the tub, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for the water to warm up. "You have no idea," he replied with a short laugh. He glanced over his shoulder where Theresa hung onto the doorframe, watching him in amusement. "It's so fucking hot in—" He cut off when he saw the smile drain from Theresa's face.

He stepped back from the tub and squinted at her in confusion. "What's wrong?"

Her arms dropped to her sides and she bit her bottom lip. She stepped forward slowly, reaching out and gently grazing his side. "Jesus, Ryan…."

He followed her hand in the large bathroom mirror behind him—eyes focused on the fingers tracing the outside of a large purple bruise on his lower back.

Ryan was just as fascinated. He hadn't really been able to take a good look at himself since that night, but it would appear as though AJ was a strong supporter of the phrase "kick 'em when they're down."

He had nothing to say. His entire body ached last night; it's not like he was purposefully trying to hide anything from Theresa, but he could tell she thought otherwise.

Pity.

He hated the word. He hated what it stood for.

In Ryan's experience, pity changed people. Made them think differently.

Like it did with Eva.

Ryan didn't need Theresa thinking differently. She knew—_she understood_—what he needed. Things to go back to normal.

She had seen a lot over the years they'd known each other—many times she'd brought out the frozen vegetables to ease swelling and dabbed his cuts with rubbing alcohol—but there was something different about the way she was looking at the bruise and gently touching every purple cell with the soft tips of her fingers.

When she finally looked up at him, meeting his gaze in the mirror, he shook his head violently.

No. He didn't want it. Any of it. Even if he didn't know what it really was.

She spoke anyway. "It's not right, you know…?"

The mirror was starting to cloud, condensation thick in the air of the small bathroom.

The purple bruise got fuzzy, and finally disappeared.

He turned and looked directly into Theresa's wide, watery eyes. "Yeah, well…." He shook his head again, slowly this time, and redirected his gaze to the squeaky-clean tub with the crack in the bottom. "What is right?"

She didn't answer. Because she didn't know, he realized. They'd never really known what was right—not with their fathers and their brothers and the lives they've lead and watched. Just how could they define "right" when everything around them was wrong?

Ryan slipped out of his jeans and boxers and climbed into the shower. He wasn't sure how long Theresa stood in the bathroom, but when he got out, there was a large heart on the mirror with the letters R and T in the middle. But underneath that, in very small letters, the word "right" was whispered quietly.

* * *

Lunch was rushed, and the way Theresa kept refilling his glass and pressing him to finish his sandwich, made his head spin a little bit. When he was washing the plates, he caught a glimpse at the clock on the microwave. 

3:45

Eva would be home soon. And Theresa didn't want him around.

He understood. As much ashe appreciated and respected Theresa's mother, he didn't want to have to explain himself. He didn't want to have to walk around the pity. So far, no one from child services had tracked him down, and with his still slightly-swollen eye, he didn't want to push his luck. It was still too fresh.

He kissed Theresa quickly and jogged down the few steps.

"Wait!" she called out to him just before he reached the corner. He turned around as she ran up and held out her hand. "Trey's probably…somewhere else. So take this. Just for the bus ride. I don't want you walking all the way back and…" She hesitated and took a deep breath, "It's just that my mom's car…."

"Yeah." Ryan nodded understandably, and took the change in his palm. "No, that's great. Thanks."

He watched her run back into the house and waited until the door was fully shut before he lit a cigarette and let his eyes drift to the house next door. It would have been convenient to just walk in and shower and grab everything he needed while he was there, but it was Tuesday. And Tuesday's—AJ's day off—were notoriously bad.

He took another drag off the smoke and turned the corner, heading for the nearest bus stop.

* * *

It took Ryan over an hour and a half to get home, and while he normally would have regretted it, seeing as how he probably could have walked it in about 50 minutes tops, he was starting to feel a little woozy from the combination of the heat and his headache, and the short walk he had to make back to the apartment almost made him want to just crash out on the infested sofa. 

He was halfway up the stairwell when a familiar shrill stopped him in his tracks. It was hard to tell what was being said, but he took the remaining steps two at a time and walked quickly down the hallway to the open apartment door.

"What the fuck, Trey? You put this fucking hole in my name?" she screamed, waving a piece of paper around dramatically.

Ryan winced and stepped back. He couldn't see Trey, but Ryan imagined he was doing the same. Their mom could reach the highest decibels when she was raving uncontrollably.

She laughed and threw the paper to the ground. "I can't even pay my own fucking lease, what makes you think I can handle your defaulting payments? Huh?"

Ryan was sure he could hear the loose wooden frame rattling long after she'd finished yelling. She was just…so loud. All the time.

"Relax. I'll get the money!"

Ryan stepped to the side so he could fully see inside the apartment. Trey was lounging on the couch, pressed back against the cushions, a grimace on his face. Dawn liked to be heard.

"Why are you always dumping this fucking shit on me, Trey? Huh? Answer me that?"

"They wouldn't lease to me unless I was 21!" he spat back. "Fuck!" he screamed, getting up and pacing in front of the sofa. He rubbed his hands over his hair like he did when he was trying to refrain from punching someone. Ryan was more than familiar with that little idiosyncrasy.

Trey looked back at his mom, and for a second, Ryan saw Trey's eyes flicker over to him, but there mustn't have been much thought there because no acknowledgment was made.

"In three fucking days, I can change it over to my name anyway! Shit! Why d'you have to fucking freak out like this all the fucking time!" Trey spun around and stomped his foot. Just as quickly, he turned back and pointed at his mom, his eyes wide. Wild.

"This is why I fucking left. I can't take this shit anymore!" He kicked the couch and stormed into his bedroom, slamming the door so hard that it bounced back open.

"FUCK!" It slammed again, and it stuck this time.

Ryan was nearly bowled over when his mom spun and bolted out the door. She stopped suddenly—obviously surprised.

"Ryan!" she shouted, like she'd just seen a ghost. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Ryan squinted in confusion, his tired brain working on overdrive, then it struck him.

She didn't even know.

She hadn't even noticed.

"I've been living here, mom!" he yelled back. He swallowed quickly and willed his voice not to crack. She didn't care; why should he?

She shook her head, disbelief and anger creasing her forehead. A snarl of a smile crossed her face and she bitterly shouted, "Oh yeah, that'll last long. You moving out too, huh? Well, it's not going to last long if you don't PAY THE FUCKING RENT!" She turned around to yell the last part into the apartment.

"Nice fucking family, I got…," she grumbled, storming past Ryan and into the hallway.

He waited until he no longer heard the rapid click of heals on cement before walking into the apartment and closing the door behind him.

With all the bitterness and disgust that had just been exchanged in the room, Ryan felt a sudden rage boiling inside of him. He gulped the air quickly through his nostrils and open and closed his fists at his sides. There was a strange prick at the back of his eyes. It wasn't that he was going to cry—he didn't cry—it was just that there were a lot of times when things weren't right, but only a few times when things were really wrong.

And that—what he had just witnessed, what had just happened—, Ryan was sure, was most definitely wrong.

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter. Chazper and P.L., your insights are great to read and your effort appreciated. **

**This chapter's a little longer. **

**A Week Before Cohen**

Chapter Five

Ryan was determined to land himself a job.

Whether he was livingwith Trey or back at home, he knew rent was an issue, and at 16, he was more than capable of doing something about it.

Besides, last year he put in a solid summer of working construction with the only decent man his mother had ever been with. Ryan didn't make much, but it was totally under the table and, at the time, the money was his to do with as he pleased. The leather jacket he bought for himself was the only thing he'd ever actually "owned."

It was taking him longer than expected to type up his resume; the public computer at the Chino Hills Library had frozen twice already and automatically shut down to restart, forcing him to start over both times.

He rushed through it on the third try, typing up what he now had memorized. When he got to the references section and found he still had a blinking cursor, he paused and scratched his cheek.

What was that guy's last name, anyway? And could he use the company as a reference if they had no record of him ever working?

In the end, he typed in a fake number and prayed any future employers wouldn't bother following up. After all, he was 16; it's not like he was going to be hired to perform brain surgery.

He pressed "print" quickly and held his breath, letting the air out slowly when he heard the old printer chug to life.

He scanned his work briefly, satisfied with the final result, and walked over to the librarian's desk.

"Is there a machine here I can make copies on?"

The lady spun around in her chair and pointed to the corner. "There's one just—" she stopped suddenly. "Ryan?"

Ryan looked at her—actually looked at her. "Mrs. James?"

His old sixth-grade teacher was smiling widely. "Look at you!" she said proudly gesturing toward him with his hands, and then leaned forward in her chair. "Look at you. What happened to your face?"

Ryan looked away and answered as quickly and naturally as possible. "Brotherly stuff," he said with a snarl. He knew from experience that the quicker he answered, the fewer questions they asked. Hesitation was fuel.

She smiled, shook her head and clucked her tongue. "You kids…."

He nodded and smiled with her. Always react with them. If they laugh, laugh. If they lecture, look ashamed.

Tried and true.

"So, in the corner…?" Ryan asked, pointing to the copier.

"Here." She held out her hand. "Watchya got there?"

"It's, uh…my résumé."

"Oh!" she said in surprise, tilting her head and scrutinizing his work. "Just one page?"

Ryan tentatively handed over the single sheet of paper that summed up his limited skills and work experience. He should have made it longer. So much for selling yourself, Atwood.

"Yeah," he answered quietly.

She smiled warmly, pulling her glasses down low on her nose and looking him directly in the eye. "Well, if it's in the interest of responsible employment," she said in a low quiet voice, "I'll bend the rules just this once and make those copies for you." She rolled her chair back and stood, lifting the lid to the copier behind the desk. "How many do you want? Thirty?"

Ryan was only going to make ten, but if he wasn't footing the bill, thirty sounded good.

"Sure, that'd be great. Thanks."

Mrs. James returned shortly with a thick folder. "Good luck," she said, handing it over the counter.

He thanked her and walked out into the hot August sunshine, the naïve teacher's words ringing in his ears. "I'll need it," he grumbled, wiping off the sweat that instantly formed on his forehead.

"Look, no offense, but customers don't want to talk to some kid with a black eye." The guy held out the piece of paper. Ryan took it back grudgingly. "Clean yourself up, stay out of trouble, and then we'll talk."

He replaced the resume in the folder and thanked the manager for his time. If he was desperate, he'd come back in a few days when his face was all the same color.

Once outside, he did a quick count of the remaining resumes. Nineteen. Not bad, but he knew that at least half of the ones that were accepted were thrown in the trash or used as scrap paper as soon as he turned his back.

No one wanted to hire a 16-year-old guy. Especially not with one who wore his troubles on his face.

So far the only place that had paid him any attention at all had been the repellent public pool—the one place where Ryan actually cringed when he walked in. Even as a kid, he swore that pool was filled with blue-colored urine.

He reached the end of the street and stood on the corner for a few minutes. The sun was going down, and he had a long walk back to the apartment still ahead of him. There really wasn't anywhere else worth trying; he'd already hit up all the city-owned places and those were probably his best option.

He sat down on the wooden bus bench—the folder with the unwanted resumes slapping down beside him—and rubbed deep circles over his eyes until he saw a technicolor show behind his lids.

He was so tired. The past couple nights had been spent battling with the bulging springs in the old sofa. Since his head started feeling better, he was more aware of the bruise on his back, and the sofa had turned into his worst enemy.

He slumped down a little on the bench and tilted his head back. The setting sun caused a soothing, warm orange glow behind his eyelids. He sighed deeply, crossed his arms over his chest, and enjoyed the quiet evening.

Ryan startled awake to a honking horn.

"You getting in or not, kid?"

He sat forward abruptly, shaking his head at the bus driver. "Uh…no. Thanks."

The bus jolted forward, the engine whining as it pulled away from the curb at a good clip.

The Vomit Comet. Ryan knew it well—the only bus in Chino that ran 24-hours. Even if he could afford it, he had no desire to step foot on it.

He blinked and glanced around. It was dark. Really dark. And all the cars that were parked on the street had since been moved, leaving Ryan alone on the bench in the middle of the night.

He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, grimacing at the stiffness in his back and neck. It would appear as though the bench was no better than the sofa.

He yawned and rose to his feet. The folder of resumes was on the ground—probably swept away by the wind that seemed to be blowing the air around and providing a heat snap for the first time in weeks.

Ryan reached down to gather what remained of the papers and place them back in the folders. When he straightened again, he was nearly knocked off his feet by a wave of dizziness.

He cursed, grabbing onto the back of the bench for support and closed his eyes, waiting for the unnerving feeling to pass. It was disconcerting, knowing that AJ—such a useless piece of scum, as far as Ryan was concerned—could have such long-lasting affects.

And then he felt it. He held his breath and willed it to go away, but it was still there, making his conscience itch like a bad rash. If after almost a week alone, Ryan was still feeling AJ, what kind of damage could he have caused in the past few days without interference? What was happening back home? Was AJ at least barefoot when he slipped into a drunken, blinding rage?

Ryan cringed at the thought.

But when he opened his eyes and stepped away from the bench, he stood solidly in place—his coordination sharp enough to catch a résumé that was almost swept up by the wind, his vision clear enough to make out the smudge of a dirty thumbprint on the corner.

Maybe there was hope after all.

Ryan stepped into the apartment, surprised to see that all the lights were still on. Arturo was lounging on the sofa, staring at the TV with half-shut eyes. Ryan didn't bother saying "hi," knowing it would be a futile effort.

He briefly considered removing his boots but then thought better of it. He was almost positive there wasn't a broom, vacuum or mop anywhere in the apartment.

"Is that him?" Trey's voice called out from behind the closed door of his bedroom.

Arturo tilted his head back onto the sofa, and squinted tightly—his own dirty socks, Ryan immediately noticed, on the pillow again. "Who?"

Ryan rolled his eyes. Surely Arturo could see him.

"Who the fuck do you think?" Trey responded bluntly, emerging from his room. When he caught sight of Ryan, his face reddened just slightly, and Ryan instinctively took a step backward.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Trey's eyes jumped around wildly, and Ryan didn't even realize he'd taken another step back until he felt the door against his back.

"I was…out. Looking for a job," he said in a rush. He added, "Sorry, man," even though he wasn't sure why. He took a shallow breath and held it—nerves clawing at his insides.

Trey shook his head, the vein on the right side of his neck throbbing with anger and adrenaline, and Ryan's confusion grew exponentially by the second.

"Looking for a job? At three in the fucking morning?" A humorless smile came and left abruptly.

Ryan breathed out quickly and pressed hard against the door until the wooden frame whined under his weight. "Yes…I mean, no. I was…then I fell asleep."

He added "sorry" again, and he was really starting to believe he'd done something horribly wrong, though his mind was reeling to find an answer to what.

Arturo lazily climbed off the sofa, the dirty pillow dropping to the floor. "Screw this," he mumbled, ambling into his dark bedroom. He didn't bother shutting the door before dropping into bed—the mattress springs squeaking loudly.

For the first time since he came in, Ryan noticed the potent smell of pot in the thick air.

Trey turned and walked into the kitchen, his breathing slowing significantly with every step. Ryan let his shoulders relax a bit and shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers working furiously at balling up loose lint—a nervous habit he never noticed until Theresa pointed it out.

Trey stood at the counter, leaning against it with his arms. He stared out the broken window for a few seconds, then turned and walked back into the living room.

Ryan caught a slight limp in his brother's step.

"What happened to you? You okay?"

As if Ryan's words were fuel, Trey's receding anger shot back up a notch.

"I went looking for you!" he yelled. "When I couldn't find you here, or at Theresa's, I went back to Mom's. You fill in the blanks."

Ryan's stomach turned over, and he had to swallow quickly and take a few short breaths to avoid throwing up.

He looked up slowly. "It's Friday…."

Trey just stared back blankly for a good minute or so—no anger or frustration now, just an undeniable tiredness that swept across his face and made his entire body go slack.

They didn't need to say it; they both knew the schedule.

Friday: AJ's pay day.

Neither of them would ever go home on Fridays.

It was a given Ryan would stay at Theresa's that night. Her mother would have the sofa all made up before they even got home from school.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said again, and he meant it now, because he was. And he wanted to add, "Thank you," but he knew that would just make Trey angry, so he bit his lip instead.

Trey looked up at the ceiling and inhaled audibly. Ryan could see the redness in his eyes, and an sickening guilt forced him to swallow again.

Finally, Trey started toward his room. Ryan couldn't help but notice there was no limp this time—an obvious effort on his brother's part.

"I'm glad you're okay," Trey muttered with his back turned, closing his bedroom door.

Ryan nodded and leaned back against the apartment door again. He shut his eyes and let out the tension with a shaky sigh. "You too," he whispered.

Never had Ryan felt a stronger urge for a cigarette.

**TBC**

**Feel free to share your thoughts. I'd love to hear them.**


	6. Chapter 6

**So as of this chapter, I'm all caught up with the LJ postings. From now on, I'll post simultaneously. **

**A Week Before Cohen**

**Chapter Six**

Ryan never really understood the term "blinding headache" until around noon that day.

He awoke with blurry vision and a horrible ache behind his eyes that made him want to hide from sun and light all day in a dark room. Though nothing was said, Trey must have noticed because he found the pills Ryan had stopped taking days ago, and brought him a glass of tepid water. Ryan didn't care that it smelled like chlorine-scented sewage, he just swallowed and breathed through his mouth until he was sure the taste was gone.

But then Trey and Arturo left to go do…whatever it was they did, and Ryan tried to lie perfectly still on the sofa of death, willing his head to remain in one whole piece.

After at least an hour of listening to his own breathing, the phone rang. Ryan grimaced, but rolled over and swung his legs off the side of the sofa. He was relieved to find that he was able to stand and the pain remained bearable, if not receding.

He shuffled over to the counter and picked up the receiver.

He immediately cleared his throat and stood up straight when the professional-sounding voice asked for him by name.

He hoped he wasn't slurring his words. He wasn't sure what was in those pills, but whatever it was made his thought process a little hazy. "Uh, yes, this is Ryan."

He would have been genuinely exited to get a job interview so quickly if he didn't feel like his brain was disintegrating. But maybe that worked in his favor—he was certain he didn't sound overanxious when he arranged a time to meet.

He thanked the lady and hung up the phone. Leaning on the counter, he rubbed a hand over his face. He felt sick. Sick enough to want to lie on the sofa for the rest of the day. And that just couldn't be right. But a job interview was a job interview. And he needed the money.

He found an unopened box of Wheat Thins in the cupboard and grabbed a handful. Maybe if he put something in his stomach, he'd feel better.

* * *

It wasn't such a long walk, really—about the halfway point between Trey and Theresa's. Ryan didn't know the grocery store well; his mom shopped at a smaller, local store that carried limited but affordable essentials. 

This place, Ryan noticed the day before when he handed over his résumé with little to no expectations, was a little nicer.

The front doors opened automatically. The floors were shiny and reflected the fluorescent lights above, and he could tell from the smell, they sold fresh fish. This was definitely taking it up a notch.

He walked toward the back, like the lady on the phone had directed, and scanned the wall until he spotted the door that said "staff only." Before he could knock, the door swung open, and a well-dressed, older lady with thick-rimmed glasses immediately held out her hand.

"Hello. You must be Ryan."

Ryan nodded, swallowed and then shook her hand firmly. "Nice to meet you," he said, frustrated by the audible waver in his own voice. He just needed to get through this, prove he could stock a few shelves, then he could crawl into a hole and feel sorry for himself until the sun went down.

"I'm Rachel. Please, come in." She lead the way past a ceiling-high pile of cardboard boxes to a small room at the back, her high heals clicking loudly against the cement floor. She held the door open for him and gestured to a chair against the wall. "Have a seat."

Ryan obeyed and slowly lowered himself into the chair.

He looked around nervously. The office was essentially empty. There was a desk, a chair, a couple lamps, but no windows or artwork decorated the stark, white walls.

"It's humble, but it works."

Startled by the comment, Ryan looked at the lady with wide eyes, about to explain himself, but she smiled dismissively and continued.

"So, Ryan," she said, lifting a piece of paper off her desk which he assumed to be his résumé. "You've worked construction?"

The words vibrated in his ears, but he understood enough to nod politely. His heart was pounding so loudly, he was sure she could hear it. He blinked several times when his eyes started burning—like smoke was being blown in his face. He reached up to rub it away, but that only made everything more blurry.

"Any experience in a grocery store at all?" she asked.

"Uh…no," he said shortly, sucking in a deep breath of air and letting it out as slowly as he could possibly manage. But his eyes were burning painfully now—this time the colors came along for the ride—and suddenly Ryan was sure that something had to give.

He placed his elbows on the arm rests and leaned forward, letting his chin rest against his chest. It wasn't just a problem anymore, it was a visible problem, and he grimaced at the urgency in the Rachel lady's voice.

"Ryan, are you okay?"

"Yeah," he whispered automatically, but he kept staring at his pants—his green pants. He was almost positive they were blue this morning.

"Do you need some water or something?"

_Get out._

The message was clear. Loud. Urgent. His body was fleeing and it was his brain's responsibility to provide some sort of explanation before it was too late.

"I'm sorry," he said sharply, standing and moving for the door.

He walked swiftly, covering the ground with long, purposeful strides, past the cardboard boxes, out the "staff only" door, and heading for the light of the day behind the three, large, square glass storefront windows.

He knew there was only one, but he couldn't deny what he saw. He aimed for the middle. It seemed like the safest option.

He apologized in passing to some poor lady he ran into by the meat counter.

_Get out. _

Behind him, he could hear the rushed click of heels on the shiny ceramic floor. But it stopped when the doors separated in front of him, allowing him to barge out onto the sidewalk.

He staggered around the corner, leaned against the wall with one arm, and threw up onto the black asphalt of the parking lot.

His eyes were burning so badly, he wasn't sure he'd ever see any other color but red. Sweat rolled down his back, face, arms. He was overheating, choking, burning.

He heard himself gasp, his lungs pulling in as much air as they could, shuddering in relief as he exhaled. His arm shook violently, and finally gave away. He rested his forehead against the cool brick of the side of the grocery store, breathing, blinking, sweating.

He stayed still until he could breathe without a hitch.

Finally he rolled around until his back was against the wall, tentatively opening his eyes to the fire. Fortunately, the burn was gone and even though things weren't a whole lot clearer, the grass was green and the brick was red, and that, Ryan decided, was at least something.

He pushed himself forward and spat onto the ground, regretting turning down the lady's offer of water.

He was almost positive she wasn't going to offer him anything else.

* * *

The church bells burst out into their lunchtime song, the sound of kids laughing and screaming as they fled the school into the playground carried down the street. 

Ryan was struggling--the last block seemed to go by in slow motion. But he was close. The song told him he was close; his vision wasn't reliable. He was blinded by the pain that manipulated his brain and tossed his stomach.

He almost fell on his face, forgetting about the lone step at the end of Theresa's walkway. He wasn't too concerned; he'd tripped over it many times before when his vision was at its best.

When he reached the flight of stairs leading to the front door, he allowed his eyelids to close out any visual stimulus that was somehow taking away his balance. He slid his hand up along the wrought iron railing as he climbed the steps one at a time.

He felt a rush of air in his face and heard the familiar squeak of the screen door.

"Ryan!"

He turned away from her voice, placing both hands on the railing and squeezing his fingers around it tightly as he leaned over.

The door shut again with another loud squeak, and Ryan could hear the pounding of running feet from within the house. When there was another squeak, four hands—one on each of his shoulders and elbows—pulled him inside.

He blindly allowed the hands to see for him, and then sat when he was told to, trusting there was something to sit on.

Sure enough, a soft cushiony sofa met his grateful body. He let his head drop heavily, too tired from fighting to prop himself up.

Hands with a purpose touched him sporadically. One on his forehead, one on his shoulder, another pushing him prone onto the sofa, a couple lifting his feet.

He draped his arm across his eyes and fought another wave of nausea. Never had it been this bad. Never had AJ ever made him this sick. Never had he felt he couldn't handle it alone.

"Drink."

Something cold brushed his lips; another hand pushed the back of his head upright. He let out a sharp gasp and pushed the hand away.

The cold object was removed.

"How long has he been like this?" The voice was angry

He hadn't been thinking. It was Saturday. Eva was home. But it was like he was programmed to return here when things where spinning out of control. He hoped Eva would understand. He hoped she'd realize how badly he needed things to go back to normal.

"He was fine! I swear, ma! I saw him, like, two days ago."

"Theresa," Eva spat, "lower your voice."

Theresa continued in a more subdued, but equally emotional plea. "I'm serious. We had lunch. He was fine. He was going to look for a job…."

Ryan finally felt his muscles relaxing, the lack of movement doing wonders for his head.

Water splashed in a sink. Ryan heard Eva sigh from behind him. "Is he still with Trey?"

There was no answer, but Theresa must have nodded because it appeased Eva. "As long as he's with his brother. I worried when Trey moved out…."

A hand brushed through Ryan's hair. He didn't react. He'd know that touch anywhere.

"C'mon, let him rest."

The cool hand trailed down his hot cheek and then disappeared. Two sets of footsteps faded into nothing.

_TBC_

_If you're still reading, I'd really love to hear from you._ _Thanks so much._


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for the great support for the last chapter. I really appreciate every single one of you who took the time to leave your thoughtful comments. Thanks so much. Transition chapter here. It all comes apart in the next installment. Apart, or together? Well, that's your call.**

**A Week Before Cohen**

**Chapter Seven**

"I want you to eat all of this." Eva slapped down a large spoonful of mashed potatoes on Ryan's plate.

He stared at the food uneasily, then looked up across the table with pleading eyes.

Theresa bit down on her fork, obviously suppressing a smile and diverting her eyes.

Her mother was a force to be reckon with, and even though Ryan felt like eating about as much as he felt like taking another slap to the head, he wasn't about to argue with Eva. Not tonight.

Not ever, really.

She was a nice, kind lady for the most part, who treating Ryan better than his own family ever had, but she wasn't one to take well to argument. Or, maybe, Ryan considered, she took to it too well. Regardless, he knew he didn't stand a chance.

So he kept his objections at bay, lifted his fork and picked at the corner of his mashed potatoes, eyeing the food skeptically as he raised it to his mouth.

He chewed for an inordinate amount of time—even though there was nothing worth chewing—, swallowed, and then nervously stared at his plate for a few seconds, waiting for an instant revolt from below. Fortunately, all was quiet.

He couldn't deny that he was feeling better. His headache had abated to the point where he had the ability to think clearly, his vision was no longer foggy, and he was fairly certain he wasn't going to fall over when he stood on his own two feet. But Theresa's place tended to do that to him. Maybe it was the air, he wasn't sure, but whenever he fell asleep in this house, he always seemed to awake in a better state.

He ate slowly—cautiously—, carefully avoiding shocking his system. He was grateful his plate only contained mild food; his hosts thoughtfully spared him from the spicy meat skewers he'd normally been known to salivate over. Finally, when his plate was as close to empty as it was going to get on this afternoon, considering the circumstances, he set down his fork and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

Eva rose and gathered the plates. Upon the second trip, and after an admonishing glare, Theresa joined her mother in clearing the table.

As Eva reached over to take Ryan's plate, she paused, analyzing the remaining contents. "I suppose that will have to do," she said softly into his ear, and Ryan could hear the smile in her voice. A warm hand squeezed his shoulder as he quietly thanked her for the meal.

Eva filled the sink with steaming water, then dried her hands and left the room. Ryan moved over to the stool by the counter; Theresa stood on the other side, elbow-deep in the soapy water, scrubbing at the dishes in the sink. She would reach up every few seconds to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ears.

He folded his arms on the counter and rested his chin on his forearm. His eyelids were extremely heavy despite the few hours of sleep, and he was already starting to dread the walk back to Trey's. It would be so much easier just to go home.

"Maybe you should stay here tonight," Theresa huffed as she tried to blow the hair off her face.

When Ryan still hadn't answered after a few seconds, she turned to face him, raising her eyebrows to solicit a response.

He buried his head into the crook of his elbow, looking off to the corner, away from her gaze. He tried to blink away the dull pain behind his eyes, but eventually gave up, closing them completely. "I don't think that's such a good idea," he mumbled into his arm.

He listened as a plate was rinsed and stacked into the drying rack before Theresa spoke again. "Well, I can ask Ma if I can drive you to Trey's…."

He managed to shake his head just slightly, even though he wasn't sure whether she was looking at him. "I was thinking," he started quietly, changing sides so that his left cheek was resting on his arm and his eyes could meet Theresa's, "that maybe I would just crash at home tonight."

She reacted so quickly, Ryan jumped in surprise. "No." She exaggerated the word so that there was no mistaking her stance. "No way."

Ryan squinted and jerked his head back to look at her upright, fully distracted from any pain the sudden movement might have caused. "What?"

"No," she said sternly, continuing to scrub at a dish.

"Theresa," he spat, exasperated, "I have to go home eventually!"

She dropped the plate she was working on into the soapy water, stepping away from the sink. "You know what, Ryan?" She clenched her jaw angrily, crossing her wet, gloved hands across her chest. "It's kind of hard for me to ignore the fact that you're not safe there when you keep showing up here, barely able to stand, or talk, or eat," she yelled, pointing to the dirty pots she had yet to tackle. "I can't just let you go back there so that all this can happen again! D'you know how hard it is to stand by idly and just pretend it isn't happening?"

Ryan felt the muscle in his cheek twitch, his breaths coming faster now—shorter. He needed to keep his anger in check—keep it quiet. The last think he needed was Eva joining in on this intervention. He spoke slowly, so that there would be no mistaking his seriousness. "I don't need you to save me."

"Yeah?" She pulled off the yellow rubber gloves, suds and water splashing into the air as she slammed them onto the counter. "Then why is it you always come here?"

She leaned forward over the counter, their noses only inches apart. Her eyes were round and glassy, and Ryan could recognize the emotion. She meant it. "Why do you always come here when you realize you can't make it on your own?"

Before Ryan even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet, forcing the stool to jut out behind him. "Because I didn't think I'd have to," he muttered, moving for the end of the counter toward his exit.

Theresa moved with him, her voice continually rising. "And you don't, Ryan! But you can't keep expecting us to help you if you won't even help yourself!"

"You know what?" he growled, stopping suddenly and gripping onto the counter until he could feel the rough bottom cutting into his fingers. "I don't need your help."

She leaned back, like he'd just hit her with all his might, and he almost held up his hands to declare his innocence.

"You don't need my help?" She blinked several times quickly, almost laughing, as if he couldn't have said anything more ridiculous if he'd claimed the sky was green.

He just shook his head, brushing her off and heading for the door. From the corner of his eye, he saw Eva hovering in the doorway of her bedroom, watching from a distance.

"If you really mean it," Theresa called out loudly from behind him, "then you better not bother coming back."

There were no footsteps following him as he kicked open the screen door and jogged down the steps of the porch. Adrenaline and anger fueled a second-wind that, up until a few seconds ago, Ryan would have never believed he had in him. Suddenly, the walk back to Trey's was not only feasible, but welcomed. He needed the opportunity to blow off steam.

As he stormed down the sidewalk, he patted his jeans with his palms until he felt the square outline of his smokes in his right, rear pocket. He pulled out the worn package, and grimaced when he saw there were only four left. Four, he was aware, would barely get him home tonight—would barely take the edge off.

But it was his own fault. He knew that. He knew that, eventually, he'd be too bruised, too sore, too beaten, for Theresa and Eva to turn a blind eye. He knew that there would be a time when the damage would be severe enough to cause worry that would outlast the physical evidence. He knew that it was all too easy—too simple a situation as it stood. He knew that _they knew_ too much, and that one day, it would all catch up with him.

He inhaled deeply off the cigarette and bowed his head as he plowed toward the setting sun.

That day had come.

_Again, all thoughts and comments are very much appreciated. Thanks very much for taking the time to read._


	8. Chapter 8

_Much thanks goes out to Muchtvs, who was an enormous help with this chapter._

**A Week Before Cohen**

**Chapter Eight**

Ryan scrunched the empty cigarette package in his hand, tossing it on top of an overflowing garbage can on the corner of Trey's street.

His boiling anger had slowly evaporated, the sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon, and he was actually almost cold as he approached the old brick building that served as more of a Band-Aid than a home.

He climbed the stairs slowly, wincing as the muscles in his back protested. As the anger faded, the irritating soreness that spread throughout his body had resurfaced. He should have just gone home, seethed in his room and avoided AJ and his mother, who were probably passed out drunk by this point anyway. But the last thing he needed was for Theresa to find out, and then act on emotion. She didn't think clearly when she was emotional. And Ryan wasn't about to play with fire.

"What about your brother?"

Ryan stopped on the third step from the landing, turning an ear toward the voice.

"I don't fucking know, man…."

Ryan shivered and slowly made his way up the remaining steps, peeking around the corner, keeping his back close to the wall.

The apartment door was wide open, light streaming out into the hallway. Arturo emerged with a large box in his arms, dropping it onto the floor a few feet from Ryan, and he swore he saw a bong jump up through the open top when the box bounced against the ground.

Arturo stopped, looked Ryan up and down, and then walked back into the apartment, calling out, "He's right here. Get him to help you move that sofa outside."

When Arturo walked through the open door, a yellow piece of paper fluttered in his wake. Ryan took a few careful steps toward the apartment, glancing inside briefly to see Trey pulling articles out of the kitchen cupboards and tossing them into a beaten cardboard box. Ryan couldn't focus on that at the moment—he couldn't fight the magnetic draw of the note tacked to the door.

His chest tightened when his brain deciphered the large block writing at the top of the note.

Eviction.

He reached out and flattened the paper against the door with his fingers, squinting as he read it, not allowing any room for misinterpretation. Underneath the printed announcement, filling in the blank line at the bottom of the sheet, today's date was scrawled in messy handwriting.

He stared at the door blankly for a moment, his mind racing with the "what nows" and "what ifs" that had seemed to become his life. The list of options was short, and they raced through his head in repetition like a lightening-fast slideshow until dizziness threatened to snatch away his balance again. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the door, willing it all away if only for a minute.

"Ry."

He angled his head toward the voice and cracked his eyes open. Trey appeared at his side—sideways.

"Help me with this sofa, will ya?"

Ryan lifted his head and let his shoulder lean against the door, bearing his weight while he viewed his brother skeptically. Trey looked calm. Almost mature. Unlike Trey, in many ways. Ryan had always marveled at how his brother could find the most solid ground when under the most extreme pressure. Trey would always be the one whose thoughts became clear and breaths came slower at the mere prospect of danger. Almost as if he thrived on it. Ryan wished he'd inherited that trait. In some strange way, it was like the excitement of the unknown was Trey's grounding force.

Trey broke away and moved to stand beside the sofa, waiting patiently for Ryan to join him.

"Where are you going to go?" Ryan asked, slowly making his way to the other end of the sofa.

They lifted at the same time and took slow, hindered steps toward the door. Trey managed to shrug despite the enormous weight of the piece of furniture. It was like it was made of steel.

"Don't know," he grunted. "Home seems like the best option for now." He checked behind him before backing into the hallway. "We'll work something out."

Ryan groaned involuntarily, but despite the silent protest from his muscles, he was oddly elated. He felt like his worry had been completely unwarranted. Because as soon as Trey mentioned the word "home," it was like that fading light at the end of the tunnel had just received a new dose of fuel, increasing tenfold and blinding Ryan with hope.

Trey dropped his end of the sofa without warning, nearly toppling Ryan over—the sudden weight jarring the breath from his lungs.

"Just drop it here," Trey said absently after the fact, pulling out the cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his lips. He flicked his lighter several times before he was able to coax out a flame.

He was already exhaling his first drag when Ryan released his grip, letting the sofa fall flat to the floor with a thud. He rolled his shoulders back as he slowly straightened, setting his jaw firmly and clenched his teeth to avoid any more spontaneous verbal objections from within. Superficially, Ryan could consider himself healed—the bruises having faded to barely noticeable—but his insides were still struggling to catch up.

He sat on the armrest and rubbed his hands together. "So that's it?" he asked, looking up at Trey out of the corner of his eye. "You're coming home?"

Trey flicked ashes onto the cement floor. "For now." He met Ryan's gaze. "Until I can figure something out."

Ryan nodded like he understood, refocusing on rubbing his hands together until they were hot from the friction, but, really, he had no idea how Trey ever went about figuring things out.

"AJ's gonna be pissed." Ryan wasn't quite sure why he said it, but it was the first thing to pop into his mind and his brain just wasn't sharp enough to censor tonight.

Trey snorted and walked over to the clouded window at the end of the hallway. "I don't give a fuck about AJ," he snarled, exhaling rings of smoke that matched his arrogance. "We can take him."

Ryan smiled cynically, bobbing his head up and down. "Together," he added.

"Yeah," Trey agreed immediately, and Ryan felt a hand pat his back. "I think you're pretty fucking hopeless alone."

And with that, Trey tossed his still-burning butt onto the cold cement and walked back into the apartment.

Ryan pushed himself up onto his feet and stood in the mouth of the apartment where Trey and Arturo were gathering the last of their meager belongings into tattered cardboard boxes that they probably stole from the dumpster behind a grocery store.

When they both had their backs turned, Ryan reached up and carefully peeled the yellow eviction notice off the door. He folded it in half and slid it into his back pocket. After all, that piece of paper was the best thing to happen to him all week.

* * *

"You're kidding, right?" 

Trey smiled sardonically as they each dropped the last of the boxes onto the sidewalk in front of the apartment. "What? Do you have money for a cab?"

Ryan took a step back and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He couldn't even fathom walking the entire way home peeking around an armful of boxes.

"I could try calling my sister. I mean, my mom won't talk to me, but if she's asleep and Theresa answers—"

"No," Ryan interrupted Arturo sharply, blinking to clear the bright stars from his eyes and drawing curious and amused stares from the other two. "Car's dead," Ryan lied, relieved he was able to think quickly enough to stem any questions about Theresa.

Trey reached over and grabbed two of the bigger boxes in his arms. "Well then, suit up."

It took them over an hour to get the first load of boxes home. Halfway there, Arturo mumbled something about a friend who owed him money, disappearing into a darkened townhouse complex and never rejoining Ryan and Trey.

There wasn't a light on in the Atwood house; even the familiar blue glow of the television wasn't visible through the front window. They decided it would be best to only make noise entering when they were ready to stay in for the night. So Ryan tossed his backpack onto his bed through his bedroom window, and they stacked the boxes they'd carried against the back of the house, where no one would even think to look. One more trip, Ryan assured himself, and then he could curl up in his familiar bed, sleep the rest of the weekend away, and pretend this past week never happened.

Trey sat on top of one of the more sturdy boxes, pulling out a smoke and silently offering the package to Ryan.

"Keep it. I've got a new one," Trey said, patting his pocket when Ryan went to return the package.

Ryan gratefully accepted, sliding down the side of the house and onto the burnt grass, reacting just fast enough to catch the lighter that was tossed in his direction.

He lit one of the four remaining cigarettes, sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and pulled his knees into his chest. "What time is it?" he asked after an extended silence.

"Night," Trey offered.

Ryan could hear a car driving past on what must have been three blocks over, exemplifying just how quiet the streets were. It was late.

"M'tired," Ryan muttered, tilting his aching head back against the siding and closing his eyes.

He heard Trey shift beside him. "I'm sure there's something inside that you could take to give you a boost."

Ryan smiled even though he didn't find the truth in the comment even remotely funny. "Helpful, thanks."

"That's what I'm here for," Trey said quietly.

And for once, Ryan believed him, because finally things were falling into place. They weren't perfect, but he took comfort in knowing that perfection was just an abstract concept anyway.

* * *

Ryan was sure the walk back to the apartment was slower than the walk over. He was dragging his feet, and finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open for any period of time. Trey must have noticed, because every few minutes, he'd do something weird, like pick up a bunch of rocks and start throwing them at random objects, keeping track of hits and misses. At one point, he body-checked Ryan into a hedge and then fled, running backwards and taunting Ryan into a chase. 

Ryan half-heartedly played along, but his body was simply checking out.

He stifled a yawn and wrapped his jacket tightly around him as they cut through a dark park; the complete lack of artificial light only intensified his fatigue.

"We desperately need wheels," Trey said; his random conversation starters were becoming more frequent as Ryan grew more silent.

Ryan nodded. "Like a bike?" he asked.

Trey scoffed, dismissing the notion, and after a second, added, "Where _is_ your bike, by the way?"

"Chain keeps falling off."

"It won't if you always start in the lowest gear."

Ryan eyed his brother suspiciously out of the corner of his eye.

"What?" Trey held up his hands defensively. "I might have borrowed it a few times…."

"Yeah," Ryan mumbled back. "_Borrowing_ seems to be your forte lately."

Trey marched up in front of Ryan, walking backwards so that they were face to face. "No, _surviving_ is my forte."

Ryan shook his head incredulously. "Sure. You're a hero."

"No, no, hear me out," Trey continued, almost excitedly. "How do you think all those big-shots in LA and New York make it to the top?"

Ryan sighed. He really wasn't interested in the lecture of illogic he was about to receive. But he couldn't help but concede to Trey's enthusiasm. "How?"

"White collar crimes, Ryan."

Ryan lifted is eyebrows and did his best not to roll his eyes. He didn't need Trey to get all defensive and start waking up the entire neighborhood with one of his rants.

"Seriously!"

"Uh huh."

"But here's the thing," Trey spun around, walking forward again as they stepped out onto the street, maintaining a faster pace than Ryan could even fathom keeping up with at the moment. "We live here." He held his arms up and then let them fall to his sides with a slap. "There are no white collars here. Which, really, just means no ones going to pay our bail. But," Trey said, glancing over his shoulder and pointing a finger at Ryan, "we still have to survive, right?"

Ryan nodded, even though he stopped paying attention shortly after the mention of "white collars." Trey was notorious for his uneducated and irrational rants about class separation.

"So we just have to be more careful. We have to be smarter. And, lucky for you, you have me as a big brother to pass on all of my priceless knowledge."

Ryan nearly burst out laughing at the sheer insanity of Trey's argument, but really, he didn't have the energy. At least the sound of his brother's voice was keeping him awake.

He looked up just in time to avoid running into Trey's backside, backing off a step to see him pick something up off the sidewalk. Trey appraised the object carefully, flipping it over in his palms several times. Ryan stared at the iron rod for a few seconds, trying to see why his brother was so mesmerized by the simple item. After a few futile seconds of brainstorming, he looked up to meet Trey's gaze, but his brother turned away swiftly and continued down the road, walking at a significantly slower pace than before.

Ryan wasn't sure why, but his stomach twisted into a knot so tight, that it nearly caused him to double over. He watched Trey closely as he examined the lone beat-up old car on the street. Ryan briefly wondered if there was something interesting written on the license plate, but abandoned that theory after a closer look revealed a typical California plate.

Trey stopped as they rounded the front of the car, and Ryan's breaths were no longer coming without effort. He glanced through driver's side window, searching for the reason this vehicle, like the iron rod, had so effectively captured Trey's attention—any answer to the question he couldn't draw the breath to ask.

But when Ryan found the courage to look into his brother's eyes, the answer was suddenly so apparent.

Survival.

"I'm your big brother. If I don't teach you this, who will?"

* * *

_Epilogue to follow. If you're reading, thank you, and I would love to hear from you._


	9. Epilogue

A/N: A big thank-you, balloons, cards, candy, and all the rest go to **muchtvs** for her invaluable help with this story. Thanks to all who are reading along and providing their comments.

**Epilogue**

Ryan pressed the hard ice pack against his left eye; the other hand propped up his chin, supporting his lolling head. The ice cracked and hissed as it melted in its plastic casing.

The rest of the house was perfectly quiet. He'd always found the silence of night to be eerie and unsettling. When everyone went to sleep, he could hear noises that, during the day, would be eaten by the activity of life around him. It was like the dark sharpened every little sound, amplifying it to the point where it would echo off every wall. Tonight, it was the melting ice and the tick coming from the clock on the wall. He swore he could hear the gears grinding within the small mechanism.

Ever since _that week_, he'd had problems sleeping through the night. Small bolts of pain would whip through his left temple, awakening him with a start. But they'd go as quickly as they came, leaving a dull ache in their wake, and he had come to accept them as a brief reminder of how bad things were. He'd shake off his tangled sheets, grab a glass of water, sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the faded, yellow eviction note from Trey's apartment—turn it over in his palm. Fold it up. Refold it. Remember. Recall. Relive.

Before the Cohens. Before the king-sized bed and overstuffed pillows. Private school and infinity pool. Friends. Family. Safety.

But the pain would eventually subside and sleep would pull down on his eyelids. The eviction note would find its way back under the alarm clock until the next night. The next reminder.

Tonight, however, the reminder was stronger. Sleep was being difficult—slippery—and his head throbbed furiously as a consequence of the punch he'd absorbed while trying to clear his brother's name earlier in the day.

A problem compounded by his uniquely sensitive left side. A problem that served as a reminder. Like that hidden yellow note. A souvenir.

When he returned from Chino to a house in complete holiday uproar, he'd smiled and joked and tried to pretend things were fine. Blended in as if his absence was merely a road trip and nothing more—nothing of consequence to note. He ate Thanksgiving dinner in the form of Chinese food on Seth's bedroom floor in the embrace of his girlfriend. He laughed in all the right places. Said all the right things. Life just continued as it usually would—the bruise encircling his eye a mere shadow of his past that no one really wanted to notice.

And maybe they all bought into it; he wasn't sure. But when he went to bed that night, he was almost convinced himself. He barely even looked at the note before turning off the light and curling up on his side. He didn't feel he had to.

But when he rolled over and the red numbers on the clock showed it was already one in the morning, he admitted defeat and tossed back the covers. A glass of water wasn't going to cut it. Not tonight.

He reached out and slowly lifted the clock—sliding the piece of paper out from underneath. Even in the dark, he could see the white along the worn creases where it would fold up into an uneven square, the corners rounded, bent and edged with dirt.

He closed his fingers around the supple paper and rose to his feet. Sleep wasn't going to come until his heartbeat stopped reverberating in his ears.

Quietly, he tiptoed through the kitchen, grabbed an icepack out of the back of the freezer, and climbed up onto a stool. He rubbed a finger along the perimeter of the large, black letters, flattening the paper against the granite.

He listened to the grinding of the clock and the settling of the ice until his eyelids grew heavy as the tender area began to numb.

As his mind was dwelling in that vague area between sleep and consciousness, a sudden flash of light nearly knocked him off his stool.

A loud crack was followed by darkness again—bright spots of light exploding in front of his eyes.

* * *

Kirsten held her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. When she walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water at one on the morning, she wasn't expecting a flick of the light switch to reveal another figure in the room.

She turned it off immediately, panicked thoughts of her son and husband sound-asleep in other areas of the house racing through her head. But her brain weaved through the panic, finally processing the mental picture that the burst of light revealed. Within only a few seconds, her dread ceased and she was able to herd up her scattered thoughts and nerves, and respond appropriately.

"Ryan?"

She stepped forward, the light from the patio illuminated the room just enough that, as her eyes adjusted, she could make out Ryan's wide-eyed glare—his surprise obviously outlasting her own.

When he didn't answer, she took another step forward, stopping suddenly when a hard, cold object grazed her sole, causing her breath to leap from her lungs—producing a soft yelping sound.

She heard her name being whispered, and it almost made her forget about the object she could now identify as an icepack, laying on the ceramic floor.

But even though her toes still tingled from the lingering affects of one too many margaritas, she couldn't refrain from picking up the icepack and placing it on the counter before she turned her full attention to Ryan.

His eyes were no longer big and round, but now a curtain of exhaustion swept across his features. A sliver of his blue eye was just barely visible beneath the swollen flesh that nearly sealed his lid shut—a dark, angry blue circle wrapping around the area. She cringed, reaching out with her fingers, letting them graze the edge of the tender bruise. She pulled back suddenly when he flinched ever so slightly.

An apologetic smile formed on his lips and disappeared in an instant, and had she blinked, she probably would have missed it.

"What happened?" she asked, like she could actually do anything about it when she knew damn well this was way out of her element. Alone with Ryan in a dark kitchen at one on the morning wasn't exactly smack-dab in the middle of her comfort zone. She was swimming against the current, but she had to try. Walking away and pretending this was normal was not going to make things any easier in the future. For either of them.

He turned his face away from her, laughed shortly, then grimaced before going blank again, and for a split second, Kirsten thought he just might cry. God knows what she'd do then.

Instead, he swallowed and stared out the window above the sink. "S'no big deal."

Ah, yes, she'd heard that before. In fact, Ryan and Sandy shared more than a few qualities, she'd noticed. She was almost certain her husband had uttered those exact words when he found out that his father, the man who'd abandoned his family many years ago, had died in a car crash. She'd survived that, and she would make it through this too. This was starting to look more and more like her territory after all.

She smiled smugly and turned to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge. "If that were the case, you'd be asleep right now."

When she turned back around, Ryan had an amused expression on his face.

"What's your excuse, then?" he asked, casting his eyes downward afterward, like he was trying to figure out whether or not he'd just said something he was going to regret.

Kirsten walked around to his other side and pulled out an empty stool, sitting down and rolling the bottle of water back and forth between her palms. "Well," she started honestly, "I let my dad get to me, and now I'm suffering the consequences." She gestured to the bottle of water before raising it to her lips and taking a long, urgent swallow.

He nodded—his stare fixed on the counter. "I let my brother get to me." He paused, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, hesitating for a moment. "And now I'm suffering the consequences."

Kirsten felt the blood drain from her face—disappointment and fear gnawing at her already unsettled stomach. Deep down in her naïve soul, she had been praying for an accident to explain his swollen eye. Hell, even finding out he had been mugged would have been better than this, because she couldn't come to terms with the idea that a member of Ryan's family would treat him that way—intentionally hurt him like that. "Your brother did that to you?"

He was silent for an agonizingly long period of time. Motionless. The ticking from the clock on the wall exemplifying the silence. Just as she opened her mouth to prompt him again, he shook his head. "Not really. Not firsthand, anyway…."

Neither spoke or moved for a second, and Kirsten would have paid a million dollars to gain the rights to Ryan's thoughts at that moment. Why were his hands clenched into tight fists? Was he angry? Scared? And if so, of what? Would he tell her if she asked? How far could she push this kid before he shut down on her? How many more questions did she have in the bank before he fled the scene?

She filled her lungs with air to speak. About what? She had no idea. At this point, anything was better than nothing—but she stopped, exhaling suddenly when her eye caught a flash of yellow as Ryan adjusted his grip on himself.

She tilted her head quizzically. "What's that, Ryan?"

She didn't even think about the question. Just genuine curiosity—no over-thought words, no psychoanalytical driving force. Ryan must have been thrown off guard because he opened his fingers suddenly, like he was surprised to find the crumpled piece of paper in his palm.

"It's…uh…nothing."

But it wasn't "nothing." "Nothing" found its way into the trash quite quickly. What Ryan had in his palm had been held onto. Scrutinized. Agonized over, even. It was most definitely something.

Kirsten reached out toward the mysterious object slowly—pausing several times so that he could see her intentions from far enough away to stave her off if felt he had to. If he really didn't want to her know, he could have protected himself—reacted. But he didn't, so she gently pinched the paper between two fingers.

He never took her eyes off of it she lifted it from his palm. Not once.

The letter was not what she had expected. Even in the dark, the faded, large, bold letters were easy to read. The message was clear, its meaning was not.

It wasn't until Kirsten's eyes wandered down to the bottom of the note that the light bulb came on.

"The date," she whispered, looking over at Ryan suddenly, his eyes jumping up to meet her gaze. "Is this from...?"

The mask slipped over his face so quickly—like it was on a timer or something, set to come on as soon as conversations crossed a certain line. He shrugged and frowned, his feigned nonchalance so obvious now to Kirsten, making her feel more like his mother than his landlord.

"The day you came to stay," she pressed louder, maybe too loudly.

Ryan leaned forward and let out a stressful sigh, cradling his head in his hands.

He didn't look well, and the alarmed lump rolling around in Kirsten's stomach was gaining momentum. She was done convincing herself; she honestly had no idea what to do. What did Ryan need right now? A friend? A mother? A doctor? She was still holding onto the hope that Sandy would hear the commotion and come to investigate. Until then, she would have to stay afloat.

She grabbed the icepack and slid it across the counter until it touched Ryan's elbow. He angled his head and glared at the object.

"You should hold that against your eye. It looks pretty sore."

He obliged, but the shake in his hand couldn't be ignored. She thought about offering him something for the pain he was trying so hard to keep under wraps, but she decided to hold off for a minute. She wasn't ready to change the subject.

When he appeared settled in his new position, she continued. "What's this from?" she asked softly.

He took two very calculated breaths before any words were uttered. "Trey's apartment. The day…." He paused, frowned, and shifted on his stool. "The day…you know."

"The day you stole the car?"

"I didn't steal the car," he answered defensively, like a tired, worn teenager who had given his testimony a million times already.

"No, I know that, Ryan," Kirsten quickly amended, shaking her head. "But I didn't know Trey was evicted."

He nodded weakly.

"Where was he going to go if he hadn't…you know?"

"Home," Ryan whispered. "We were going home."

Her mind was fighting against the sluggishness of the alcohol, trying to pinpoint what, in that sentence, was off. "_We?_ Ryan, were you living with Trey?"

He set the icepack down on the counter and leaned back in his stool—his chin tucked against his chest. Kirsten was able to obtain an answer from Ryan's body language, and a pang of guilt latched onto her heart—this was obviously not a jovial trip down memory lane for the kid.

"A lot happened that week." He met her eyes very briefly before refocusing on his hands in his lap.

"But you kept this?" she pried, sliding the note across the counter until rested in front of him.

He shrugged. "I just thought…. I don't know," he conceded wearily, his hair falling over his eyes. "It's just hard to forget."

Kirsten placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded. Not because she knew what he meant, but because she knew what it felt like to be so lost—so unsure—that there were no words capable of describing the hopelessness.

She glanced around the kitchen and cleared her throat. "You know...that we don't want you to forget, right? You know we realize that you have another family, and had another life before you came here?"

He swallowed and bobbed his head up and down once unconvincingly, like he was barely listening—like he was barely in the room.

"But this," she said, pointing to the note and squeezing his shoulder supportively, hoping to ground him in some way—made him realize he has found stability, "is never going to happen again."

He rubbed his palm over his eyes and turned his face away from her. And as much as she knew Ryan wasn't Seth, or Sandy, or even her dad, as a human being—as a mother—she couldn't respect his silent request for personal space anymore.

She gently pulled his shoulder into her chest, wrapped her arms tightly around his body, and rested her chin on top of his head.

She's not sure how long she held him there, but despite his rigid silence, he didn't fight her; he didn't resist in any way. And upon this realization, her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed tonight.

When she finally let go and met his eyes, he gave her a shy half-smile and reached out to the counter, grabbing the note and letting his hands fall back into his lap. A couple seconds later, the paper was scrunched into a ball and rolled around several times in his fist, as if to reduce the reminder to its smallest form, rendering it officially irrelevant, but not forgotten.

* * *

Ryan was a little nervous when Kirsten followed him back to the pool house. She was whispering something about a bottle of water and some pills, but his head was in no shape to pay her absolute attention. It didn't seem like she needed his input, anyway. He couldn't help but notice how she continued to whisper quietly, even though she was now out of earshot of any sleeping people. Just because she knew that was what he needed.

He gratefully climbed onto the bed, letting his head drop into one of the many fluffy pillows. His headache was waging a full out war now, forcing him to bite back waves of nausea with dry swallows when the pain peeked.

Kirsten fussed quietly behind him in the kitchen area for a while, returning with the pills and water and placing them on the nightstand. She straightened, twisted her rings around her finger and tilted her head to the side, flashing a sympathetic smile.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked softly, her gaze never faltering.

Ryan swallowed and lifted his hand just off the pillow in response, afraid to nod.

She frowned and bit her lip. She didn't ask anymore questions. Instead, much to Ryan's relief, she leaned over and turned off the lamp.

He let his eyes drift shut in the soothing darkness and forced a few deep breaths.

Light footsteps encircled the large room, finally returning to his bedside followed by the gentle brush of fingers through his hair.

"I'm just going to put this garbage can right here beside your bed. Just in case you need it, you'll know where it is, all right?"

Ryan barely managed a nod; his head suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, anchored on the pillow.

There was something said about a doctor's appointment amongst the squeaking of springs as Kirsten leaned over the bed, gently running her hand through Ryan's hair one last time, letting her warm fingers pause on his forehead, then trail down his neck and onto his shoulder. The mattress shifted as she gave one last encouraging squeeze before pulling away.

Had the door knob not clicked into place, Ryan never would have known she had left the room.

He gritted his teeth as another stabbing pain assaulted his head, forcing him to latch onto the side of the bed and desperately pull his body toward the edge.

Supported on his elbows, he stared at the bottom of the garbage can, blinking through the dizzying spots of light. When his arms started to shake in protest, he flopped down onto his chest, his head lolling lifelessly over the edge. When he was sure that the threat had subsided, he allowed himself to inhale again, his lungs greedily gulping in the oxygen.

As his muscles relaxed, he released his death grip on the linens, stopping suddenly when he felt the crumpled ball of sweat-soaked paper clutched in his left hand.

He closed his eyes and felt the texture of the note as he rolled it between his fingers, so different now in its new circular form.

With a shaky sigh, he opened his fingers and let the paper fall to the bottom of the garbage can. He didn't want to remember anymore. It was time to forget. It was time to look forward. It was time to believe, himself, the words he had said to Sandy earlier that night.

_I am home._


End file.
